100 GWTW Fics
by vegemite
Summary: That's right, 100. Twelfth one: Orange
1. Beginnings

Hello all. Perhaps I should explain my title. I found a challenge for writing one hundred fics, and after reading _Gone With the Wind _again, I decided to complete it for this fandom. This is my first attempt at GWTW fanfiction, though by no means my first attempt at fanfiction in general. Each chapter will probably be stand alone, and the title is the prompt that was given. Hopefully I can make it through 100! This first one is based off the scene in the book in which Scarlett sees Rhett for the first time.

**Beginnings **

Rhett Butler held no interest for the barbeques and parties and balls that other Southerners seemed to set so much store by. But when Frank Kennedy gave him an opportunity to attend one, he was so bored with Jonesboro and Frank that he went along.

They arrived rather early that morning, and so far Rhett had not meshed well with the other guests. John and Ashley Wilkes were good enough hosts to converse with a man who wasn't received, but the former was helping his daughter India arrange for the barbeque and the latter was attending to his fiancé, a sweet and gentle woman by the name of Melanie Hamilton. So Rhett, never eager to stay where he was unwanted if it did not serve him, was content to walk the grounds of Twelve Oaks alone.

He had never before quite realized that Southern land was so rich and luscious, and he could see now why the planters prized it so. Of course he'd seen the Georgian countryside, but growing up in Charleston he had not valued it as he was discovering it should be valued. He still found the war ridiculous, but he could see why one might be driven to protect this land. Never him, but someone.

The rattling of carriage wheels and the rhythm of horse's hooves told Rhett he should be getting back to the yard. He wondered if perhaps he would find someone at this party that he could actually talk to, or at least a girl who was willing to give him a little fun. But somehow he doubted it, because the only women Rhett Butler attracted were whores, and the Southern countryside produced matrons, not prostitutes--that honor was reserved for the slums of cities.

He exchanged very few pleasantries with other guests, as it seemed his reputation had preceded him once again. He knew they were whispering and pointing and staring, but he honestly did not care. Rhett had learned long ago that he should value very few people's opinions.

It had been a rather mellow party, up until the point when a new carriage arrived. A change overtook the crowd and a buzz rose as several men flocked toward the carriage, leaving very irritated girls behind them. Not wishing to become part of the crowd, Rhett stood back and waited to see what the fuss was about.

Cheery and bubbling came a girl, fair of skin and dark of hair. She had a lovely figure, but Rhett had seen many girls with just as lovely and would have dismissed her as just another pretty belle but for the fact that she had the audacity to wear an afternoon dress in the morning. He would have to learn more about this woman who wasn't afraid of the gossip she was certain to incur.

The girl was entertaining all the young gentlemen, including Mr. Keneddy, but Rhett saw immediately that it was pure, and genius, acting on her part. She was not here to meet her beaux, and he was quite certain this was what she considered all these men. He saw her eyes searching for something, but just what he was not yet sure.

During one of her sweeps he caught her interest. She stared at him, almost as if appraising him for worth and he grinned with his eyes, appraising her. She was obviously uncomfortable under his gaze, but did not take her eyes off him.

"Rhett! Rhett Butler! Come here! I want you to meet the most hard-hearted girl in Georgia." Frank Kennedy was a suddenly a few feet from him, and he took one last moment to raise an eyebrow at the belle before turning. She stuck up her nose at him and laughed toward another man.

"Rhett, this is Suellen O'Hara." Frank beamed ridiculously and an uninteresting girl was presented.

"A pleasure to meet you, Miss O'Hara." He bowed slightly.

"I see you've been admiring my sister, Mr. Butler. Scarlett certainly can attract the men." She looked irritated and glared at Frank, who immediately went into a long, loving speech about her, but Rhett was not paying attention. He was stealing glances at the pretty girl with the tiny waist. Scarlett O'Hara. He had a feeling he should like to get to know her better. 


	2. Middles

**Middles **

Scarlett never had any trouble with beginnings or endings, but the bits that were in between never seemed to come easily. A prime example of this had been her marriage to Frank. If had begun quickly enough, and while her lie lasted had been strong. Heaven knows she had gotten over him fast enough, despite her protests of fondness and guilt. But in the middle years, there had been nothing worthy of mention between them, and it was not just her lack of love.

She had always been like this, as long as she could remember. She would take something up, become disinterested, and quickly complete or end it. It wasn't that she wanted her life to be full of nothing but beginnings and endings, but that was what she viewed change as.

There were few instances in Scarlett's life where her truth did not hold up, but one of the most prominent was what to do about Ashley Wilkes. She had begun this problem as easily as all the other, and she had held high hopes that they would have a happy middle period and no end. Instead, because of his sense of duty toward Melly, they were stuck in the place between the beginning of their feelings and the middle of their happiness. They were stagnant, and she could not end this awful longing between them, of his loyalty to his wife. This perplexed her and she understood it not at all, so that whenever she attempted to contemplate all their possibilities she ended up screaming into a pillow.

She felt as though no one could understand this eternal limbo she found herself in, the place between danger and safety, love and hate, sorrow and bliss. Mammy would tell her to "pull up yo' spirits, Miss Scarlett," that she somehow had a duty to the world to show her face. Scarlett would reply with a moan and a question of why would the world want to see a face as depressed as hers? Mammy would just stick out her lower lip, and the Scarlett knew there was no hope of going against her.

Melly could always tell when Scarlett was in such a mood, though goodness gracious! she never knew why, and would gather her sister to her bosom and let her cry her eyes out. Scarlett would weep for her frustrations at being trapped in life and Melly would tell her, gently, what a silly goose she was being. She resented the fact that Ashley's wife was the only one who could comfort her, but knew that there was no one else, for she his these thoughts from Rhett. He would be irritated at the mention of Ashley and then couldn't understand how distressed she was. She told herself that, but really it was because Rhett was a huge part of the problem.

Despite going in to her marriage with Rhett with the lowest of expectations, Scarlett was actually finding it to be rather pleasant, sometimes even better than living unmarried would have been. And that was the problem, for her other greatest situation in which her life's theory beginnings, middles and ends did not hold up was in her marriage to Rhett. Because Scarlett enjoyed it.

Never before had she found so much joy in the middle of something. With Rhett there had been a swift beginning, leaving her little time to think about how their life should be, as she was also busy playing the part of Mrs. Kennedy, The Widow. True, her other marriages had begun quickly, but they has also immediately lost their novelty. Rhett took her to new places, showed her new things, bought her as much food and as many dresses as she wanted. It never quite struck her as strange that her marriage with no love was more exciting than the ones with half. Scarlett would have thought nothing of all of this, puzzling as it was, except that Rhett was taking what belonged to Ashley.

The happy middle was Ashley's--it always had been. And now Rhett had come along and was making her happy! Of course, never as truly happy as she would have been with her true love, but as happy as she had ever been without him. Scarlett tried her hardest not to be happy, but when the time came, she never could refuse the silk of the boat tour or the comfort from her nightmares.

So she could only console herself with the fact that one day she would rid Ashley of his silly loyalty to a loveless marriage and he would be hers. Then she would have her true happy middle.

* * *

Not sure about this one. Give me your thoughts.

**Reviews:  
Don Juanita Triumphant** - Thank you! Characterization is always the part I worry about.  
**ASCARLETTFANN** - Thanks! I plan to do these fics from all sorts of POVs. Main characters, of course, and probably a ton of really obscure ones too.  
**ThisCherryGirl** - Yes, it will! I estimate an average of one per week, so a bit less than two years. Though knowing me, more like two and a half! And some of these might be sad (I'm a BIG angst writer), but there will definitely be more like the first chapter!  
**Svufanatic1234** - Thank you!  
**Holly** - That's what I'm going for with most of these - characterization.  
**ROMANTICFAN** - I'll update, don't worry. :)  
**Elizabeth** - Sorry, but as these are all separate fics, they probably won't be very long.  
**classicmovielover** - Erm, I haven't posted it anywhere before. Perhaps there was a very similar one somewhere, but I haven't read much GWTW fanfic, so I wouldn't know. It seems like it might be an idea a few people would have. I swear I didn't copy it from someone. :(  
**writingtiger** - Heh, thanks.


	3. Ends

**Ends **

_Quiet. Death's quiet._

"What about you, Rhett Butler? You got a girl, don't you?"

"You're drunk again, Harry. God knows I don't care, but you're going to get yourself killed."

"I'm-a get killed anyway, why not get drunk for it? Who's your girl?"

"I haven't got a girl."

"Sure. C'mon, handsome guy like you?"

"I'm telling you, I haven't got a girl. Shut up."

"OK, OK, no need to get up'n arms. Ain't we got the Yankees for that?"

_A crack in the distance. Warning shot._

"It ain't like there's anythin' else to do but talk anyway. I already told you 'bout my wife. She's waitin' for me, you know. Only married two months afore the war started, but she's waitin'."

"Yes, I know. You've told me a dozen times at least. I suppose...do you really want to hear about the woman I left behind?"

"Course! I wouldn' go to all this trouble if I didn' wanna hear."

"Well, I don't miss her. She's a pain in the behind. She's cold, calculating, jealous and spiteful. She doesn't love me, and I don't believe I love her."

"Then why you stick aroun'?"

"I was just getting to that part, wasn't I? As I said, I don't believe I love her but I can't leave her alone. She knows what a cad I am, but she can't send me away. I don't think it's because of any affection for me, but I give her expensive things, and she's still rather attached to the kind of life she had before the war."

"She pretty?"

"Do you think I'd bother if she weren't? She's got cat's eyes—green like…well, like the grass used to be before the war, and dark hair that sits just right against her skin. Of course, there are plenty of other, probably prettier girls that I could have much easier than her."

_The soldiers march._

"Maybe that's why I like her; she's smart enough to be a challenge. She won't let me kiss her, but I know she loves it when I do."

"You're not married to her, are you?"

"Of course not! I'm not a marrying man. Anyway, she puts on these airs like it offends her, or that she cares about my reputation, but she doesn't. I suppose that's what makes her so intriguing."

"You sure got a lot to say 'bout her, for not wantin' to talk."

"Shut up."

_Onto the battlefield. The sounds of death scream through the air and the men's voices join them in agony._

"What was that?"

"That, dear Harold, was the general's order. We're moving."

"The Yanks?"

"Yes, the Yanks."

"We're really gonna die this time, ain't we?"

"I plan on living. You, however…well, you're drunk, and a poor marksman when you've got a clear head. I wish you luck."

"You'll tell my wife, eh, Butler? Tell her I love her?"

"I will, Harry."

_Quiet again. Death has come and the South has lost a few more brave young souls._


	4. Insides

**Insides**

_To Miss Belle Watling,_

_Miss Watling, I wanted to write to you and thank you for your generous donation to the Atlanta Hospital. I hope you will be glad to know that your money is being put to good use as we are in the process of acquiring more anesthetics so our boys in gray can leave the bravery to the battlefields and not waste it away in surgery._

_Many of the women were reluctant to accept your donation, and I apologize for poor behavior on the part of our volunteers. It was very rude of them, but I seem to have convinced them to accept your contribution to the Cause. I am sorry that they have such difficulty seeing past outward projections. I know that you have a kind heart; otherwise, you could not have given us such a substantial amount. But we must be patient with the ladies, for they probably do not realize that they are passing judgment, and if they did they would surely be horrified and repent immediately. I ask that you forgive them their shortcomings._

_I wonder if perhaps you would be interested in nursing for our poor wounded boys. All they ask is a kind smile and a gentle hand. You would be perfect for such work. I understand if you are too busy, but please consider as the Confederacy needs all the women there are to volunteer, and we have many light shifts that are only five hours a week. But, Miss Watling, those five hours can mean the difference between life and death for so many men._

_Once again, thank you. I hope to see you again, even if you choose not to nurse._

_God's blessings to you,  
Mrs. Ashley Wilkes_

_

* * *

_

This is better if you imagine it in cursive, btw. :) Anyway, I'm sorry that the updates thus far have been so irregular - I never was one for the "every week a new chapter" thing, although I really should get some sort of structure. The next one might be a little while in the coming, because I do know what I think I'm going to do but I'm not entirely sure how to put it down. Oh, and I apologize for the shortness of this one, but there wasn't really anything else to put in. Thanks for all the positive reviews!


	5. Outsides

**Outsides **

My family has never been one to judge things at face value. We aren't without our faults, but it's been the general consensus of our neighbors that our men are the least likely of all men to be shallow to the point of fault. I realize that this isn't exactly a compliment towards myself, but I came to terms long ago with the fact that I am not a great beauty and will die an old maid. I wish it were not so, but I will not degrade myself like some women and run after men when I know I am long past my prime.

But why is it that my brother cannot see past the charms of Scarlett O'Hara?

She is still Scarlett O'Hara in my mind. Her marriage to Charlie was fake; he, too, was seduced by her flirtatious tricks. Is she really that irrisistable that she turns Wilkes and Hamilton so easily? She managed to hook poor Frank Kennedy as well, but I know in his heart he must still wish he had married her sister Suellen. And there was Stuart…

But I'm not bitter, I'm not. It's just that sometimes I can see his face in my dreams, smiling…but always smiling at her.

It's bad enough That Butler Man still hangs about her. He's caught too, but he deserves it. He's the only man that's not completely helpless and innocent, and so if he becomes entrapped in her spider's web it's his own fault if she cocoons him up and sucks his blood dry.

But Ashley! My sweet brother, why him? How could he have become so tangled in her affections? He puts up a marvelous fight, and I know he loves dear Melly, but Scarlett has a hold over him like no other woman. It breaks my heart to see him struggling to stay afloat, all the while gulping down water until he sinks. She slithers up close, always smiling and laughing. When he lets his guard down she wraps herself around him, and when he finally thinks he's got everything his heart desires she strikes, smothering the life from him. She's sly, conniving, crafty—everything that lets her hunt her prey: men.

And Melly! Poor, kind-hearted Melly can't see past the part Scarlett plays, either. She invites the wolf right in to her house. I can't help but be disgusted at her at times. How can she not see? But Scarlett is the perfect actress.

I know it's wrong, but sometimes I think that if I could just put my hands about the weasel's neck, I could end all this. How simple. How easy. But I can't do that. While Ashley and all those other men would be free, Melly would hate me forever unless she understood why. Melly can't understand, though; she doesn't want to understand. She loves Scarlett, probably more than she loves me. Scarlett takes that love, twists and perverts it, and throws it back as a weapon. She uses Melly to get Ashley. And every times Melly loves her, Ashley is one step closer to throwing everything away with that traitor.

Why doesn't anyone ever say anything? I know they must suspect that Scarlett is the last woman you would want to leave your husband with. Surely they would warn Melly? But perhaps I overestimate them. Perhaps they cannot see past her silly, sickeningly sweet projection. Perhaps I am the one sane woman in all of Atlanta. Can they really be so dense that Scarlett's aura of wicked thought isn't apparent? Then again, these women are married to men who thought the South would be victors of the war in a month, at most.

I must be the only one who knows the truth. But if one person knows something and no one else does, does that make that one person mad? I can't be crazy—it's blatantly obvious what the real Scarlett is like. All the worst qualities in a human being rolled into one woman.

I hate her.


	6. Hours

**Hours **

Only hours until the Yankees came.

Melanie knew Scarlett wanted to go. She begged her to go, to save herself, for it would also be hours until her baby was born. But Scarlett, her dear and faithful sister, sat through the heat and the worry to make sure that she, Melly, was alright. Scarlett was doing the best she could…oh—but the pain! The pain would surely kill her. This must be how those poor soldiers in the hospital felt, but how much worse without anyone who loved them nearby! Was this how her Ashley would die, in such mortal pain? At this point she almost hoped her pain would kill her, except that she didn't think heaven would accept her if she died willingly.

Oh, but it was hot in here! Everything was sticky, but the sheets clenched in her fists felt sandpaper rough. She felt as though every time she moved against them she wore away a layer of skin.

Scarlett reached for the towel rope again.

"No," Melly panted. "Don't worry about me. I'm fine."

"Honestly, Melly," Scarlett said, prying the pregnant woman's fingers from the sheet and putting them around the towel. Melanie felt the awful roughness in her hands and wanted to throw it back, but the pain gripped her belly and she twisted the rope. Her teeth clenched so hard she worried they would shatter in her mouth. Her throat felt bare and raw and breathing was painful, but she couldn't help gasping in the air.

In the far distance the sounds of canons raged. Melly saw Scarlett's face turn sickly pale. "Go, darling. You have to save poor Wade."

"Don't be a fool, Melly," she snapped, but Melanie could see the fear in her eyes.

"Prissy could…"

"Prissy doesn't know anything. She lied to us." Scarlett's voice was tired, burdened with the heat and everything else in this room. "It's just you, the baby, and me."

"Oh, Scarlett!" Melly nearly wept with joy and pain. "I'm so glad you married poor Charlie and became my sister. I don't deserve such a loving sister as you, and you've made everything so much easier for me, Oh, my dear, I know you want to go home…thank you so much…"

Scarlett glanced down. "Well, just hurry it up."

"I'll try." Melanie nodded, trying to seem brave, but she knew it would be hours. Hours until her baby came.

Hours until the Yankees came.

* * *

I am SO sorry it's been so long. I started this minific and then somehow lost it in my room...but anyway. The next one might be a while, too - any ideas for the prompt "minutes?" This is harder than I thought it would be!


	7. Days

OK, I'm really sorry that I'm such a dork, but it turns out that I had the prompt for this chapter wrong! It was actually 'Days,' not 'Minutes.' Thank you for everyone's great ideas and I was definately considering using a few of them until I figured out what the prompt actually was. This is what Rhett did during those days after the night of the Wilkes party. It may seem a little disjointed, but I like it that way because Rhett's drunk so he's not really thinking clearly.

**Days**

Rhett stared into the bottom of brandy glass. The brown liquid distorted his view slightly, so he tipped back his head and let it pour into his mouth. Setting the cup back on the counter he peered down again. Much better.

"Aww, Rhett, come on. You made me have this party, and now you won't even go out and say hello to the guests!" Belle stood behind him, arms around his neck and fingers stroking his cheeks.

"Stop it," he snapped, shrugging her arms away. A little puzzled and concerned, she sat down next to him, hand reaching for his in a gesture of comfort.

"What's wrong, Rhett? You came in yesterday in the foulest mood I've ever seen and you haven't moved from that spot since this morning." He said nothing, ignored her hand, and continued to stare into the depths of his glass. "Is it Scarlett?" she asked carefully.

"Yes, of course it's Scarlett!" he barked, with such anger in his eyes that she shrank back in fear. At this his expression softened slightly. "Sorry."

She still sat there, and he tried to ignore her, but it wouldn't work. "For God's sake, Belle! Let me be." The whole reason he'd suggested this party was because he wanted her to have something to do besides worry about him. Well, _he_ also wanted to have something to do besides worry about him, but that wasn't working too well.

Belle drew herself up and rose from the chair. He could tell she was upset as she walked away, but at that moment he didn't care. He knew he would feel guilty later for lowering her spirits, but for now all he could think about was that he paid her too much for her to be angry with him. Shouldn't the money be enough? Rhett could always buy whatever he wanted, except for one thing…

But didn't he pay her enough, too? By God, he'd given her everything, and still she wouldn't hand over the one thing he truly desired! If he could only get Scarlett's heart and mind, Rhett Butler knew he'd be the happiest man in the world. Oh, but he loved and adored and worshipped and gave everything already! He loved her enough for both of them, or so he thought when he married her. But when she'd shown absolutely no progress towards his goal of making her love him, he had gone half mad with jealousy. That stupid Ashley Wilkes! He took her from him, and he could have wrung that 'honorable gentleman's' neck…

Rhett stopped clenching at his glass and tried to calm himself down. He was just drunk enough to try something stupid like going out to the Wilkes household and murdering that bastard.

But it would be no use. Ashley would be immortalized in Scarlett's eyes and he, Rhett, would never gain her favor. If she would just give him something in return for his years of love, it wouldn't be necessary to kill Ashley Wilkes! But it was obvious now that she wouldn't, and Rhett would have seriously entertained the idea of murder, just to spite her, if it hadn't been for the grief that Mrs. Wilkes would surely suffer at her husband's death.

Oh, and he'd tried so hard! He'd given Scarlett warmth, comfort, and security. He'd tried being tender and loving, but when it hadn't acoomplished anything he'd had to resort to insults and conveying indifference in order to preserve his sanity. But even that hadn't worked.The night before last was proof enough of that.

He'd been mad, absurdly mad with jealousy. Every moment he looked at her and knew she was thinking about Ashley drove him to the edge of lunacy, causing him to drink to numb his anger, which in turn pushed him over. When he'd forced himself on her he had been so insanely drunk that he wasn't quite aware of what he was doing, only that Ashley was in her head and that he wanted to be there instead. In this he knew he had succeeded, but what the price had been for his one night of victory he wasn't yet certain. Had he changed her mind about her 'one true love?' Doubtful. Or had he further alienated her from him, and caused her to hate him forever? Much more likely.

He was crazy! He was a madman, trapped in a spinning world of lies, manipulation, and unrequited love. He wanted to escape her hold, but it was as impossible now as it had been during the war. She didn't love him and he loved her so, so much and he couldn't handle it any longer and he just wanted to forget.

He stood and walked into the main hall, where Belle was laughing with two gentlemen. Moving behind her, he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her body close to his, whispering in her ear. "Make me forget." She turned her head slightly, nodded, and took his hand to lead him away from the party.


	8. Weeks

**Weeks**

"You stop exciting yourself, boy. You hear? We can't have you running around camp like when you got the measles. Pneumonia's a serious business. Hamilton?" The doctor was looking at him with a serious expression, but Charles hadn't been paying attention and wasn't sure what was going on.

"Yes, sir."

"Good man." The doctor left the tent and Charles was glad. The man was always nagging at him. Could he help it if he was so eager to lick the Yankees? Wasn't everyone? He wanted to be out there as soon as possible so he could finish the war off and get home to his wife.

Ah, his wife. Beautiful Scarlett. He wrote to her or thought about her during every spare moment he had. The other men called him love struck and laughed at the dreamy expressions he got when he was thinking about Scarlett, but as long as it wasn't coward he honestly didn't care what they called him. He did get angry when they wouldn't believe his descriptions of her beauty, though. They didn't think that someone so beautiful could love a man like Charles. Well, they didn't know Scarlett! Actually, Charles himself had been a little confused at first, but it quickly passed, as he knew that she must look on him with the same utter devotion that he held in his gaze for her. How could she not? Surely the same passion that burned in his heart burned in hers.

Charles' thoughts were interrupted by a coughing fit. He hacked it out, knowing to let it run its course rather than try to stop it. Really, he didn't feel so very sick except when coughing, although his fits did seem to be getting longer and more frequent. No matter, he'd be sure to get well soon. That doctor worried a great deal more than was necessary. He'd spent too much time dressing gunshot wounds and the like, or so Charles imagined, and now he couldn't handle or diagnose a little cold. Although, the medicines _were_ helping immensely…

No matter. If the Yankees got a lucky hit he'd come to this doctor, but something like this cold wasn't worth the time of a trained professional. Pneumonia. Ha! That was probably just good oldColonel Hampton's worry for his men speaking. Charles knew the Colonel would do something like that for his boys in gray. Yes, the doctor was probably just under orders to keep him in bed, and, well, if that was the case he would respect the Colonel's wishes. Hampton was surely right.

If only he wasn't so susceptible to illness! Charles had always been a sick boy, pale and weak. And just when he had the chance to get into marvelous shape and become a hero, he had to go and contract something as silly as the measles!

But he knew he'd get over this. He'd be up and running in a few days, and then he'd lick every Yankee out there. After all, it couldn't be as serious as all that. He'd only been in camp a few weeks, and Charles Hamilton had a lot of fighting left to do.


	9. Months

OK, so this is a weird one, and I don't know if I even like it. I thought that since both the last and this one are short I'd post both at once. Guess what point of view this is from, and the answer is at the end.

**Months**

It's been months since you've been with me, Rhett Butler. Ever since your daughter was born I've missed you. I miss your head resting against me. I've missed seeing your browned face peaceful and quiet. Oh, I've missed you Rhett.

Sometimes I still catch glimpses of you. In passing we are like strangers, not really knowing each other. You walk by in the hall and I see you stop by the door, not often, but you never come in.

I curse the day you were banned from the "sanctuary." It was a horrible, horrible blunder. And that was when it all started. It's never been the same since. I want you to come back to me, Rhett. You know I can't cry out, but I need you. You said you could break down the door if need be. Don't you want to? Have I repelled you so that you don't long for my comfort any more? Rhett, I can't make the first move. It has to be you.

Months and months, enough to make years, have passed, and finally you've hear my silent calls. I can feel you again, and even though you're drunk, our connection is greater than ever. I'm excited for what's happening, but I'm scared of what's happening, and I know that I can't lose you again.

But now you're gone, much too soon, and I wish you would have stayed longer. I don't know where you have gone, but in mymind are a few rooms where I know you could be. Why do you do this? Please come back, darling. You know no one can hold you like I can.

* * *

So, did you guess? I have the answer. It's…Scarlett's bed. Yeah. Think about it. Read it again. Maybe freak out a little. I know I would. Then tell me if you liked it, or if you think I'm on crack. All comments are welcome, as this was an experiment. 


	10. Years

**Years**

_Mr. Butler jumps._

Bonnie remembers what it is like to be a baby. Wrapped firmly in cloth, held by her father, she knows that she is the only one in the world that means anything. Of course, as a baby, she doesn't have aware thoughts like this, but she can feel it. Somewhere deep down, Bonnie can feel that she is special. After all, her daddy loves her, and he doesn't love just anyone.

_Black fat legs extend, and Bonnie holds on tight._

Her mother loves her too. Maybe not as much as her father does, but Bonnie doesn't think about that. Her mother is holding her up, teaching her how to walk. Bonnie toddles, stands for a moment, and falls. Mother lets Mammy scoop her up to stop the crying and then tries again.

_Wind rushes through her hair, and she wonders why Daddy wouldn't let her jump before when it's so much fun!_

Ella is playing with her dolls. Why can't Bonnie be old enough to play with her? She keeps on growing, but Ella grows too, and she never seems to catch up. She begs to play, but her sister ignores her. Then Mother walks by and says that Ella must let Bonnie play. Bonnie is very pleased and immediately starts dressing a dolly, but Ella's eyes follow Mother out of the room. Then she turns and gives Bonnie a look so mean and dirty that the younger girl drops the doll and bursts into tears instead.

_Mr. Butler lands and Bonnie can't wait to tell Daddy and Mommy, but her pony isn't moving._

It is her fifth birthday, and Beau Wilkes has written Bonnie a poem. Mother says that it is beautiful and that Beau is very talented, but Bonnie doesn't care. She can't read yet, and pretty dresses and toys are more exciting than a silly piece of paper. When Beau reads it to her, she doesn't understand what it means and she doesn't think it's a very good story. But she claps and smiles and makes sure to tell him how wonderful it was anyway.

_Bonnie's body doesn't stop with Mr. Butler's and she loses grip and flies forward out of the saddle._

She has been sent away, and she doesn't know why. She has barely gotten to see Mother since the European trip. When Mammy brought her and Wade and Ella over to Aunt Melly's, the old woman she had seemed very worried about something. The last time Bonnie had seen her father, he had been sniffling. But Daddy didn't cry, ever! Daddy was the one who stopped her from crying. Daddy didn't cry.

_Her body sails and she can't move her arms, but the wind rushing at her excites her and makes her try to breath faster._

Bonnie prances around atop Mr. Butler, telling her parents to watch as she jumps. She's not supposed to yet, but she's seen her father do it before, and the fence isn't so very high. He yells something, but he doesn't really try to stop her. She figures it must be alright. She lines up her pony and rides toward the jump.

_Bonnie Blue Butler hits the ground, and her neck snaps in two._

_

* * *

_

Well, I saw that I hadn't updated in about three months and felt very guilty indeed. I am working on it, I swear. It's just not coming along very fast. I'll have to watch the movie and read the book again. Problem is I'm currently obsessed with the World Cup, and it pretty much takes up alll the time I'd usually spend writing. w00t for Australia!. :D Anyway, in case it's confusing (which it very well might be), this chapter is one of those "life flashing before your eyes" things, for Bonnie. I originally planned to go with a much more sappy, much more Scarlet-and-Rhett-centric chapter, but the idea I had wasn't fitting with what the characters would actually do, so I threw that out and started over. Hope you liked!


	11. Red

**Red**

She is red.

She is Scarlett, after all, how can she not be red? She is blood, the fire of life, coursing through his veins, invigorating him.

She is red, and she is dangerous.

She can't love him, she can't. Why would someone so vibrant love someone like him? He knows he sounds dreary, must bore her to death with his books and poetry and quaint, old-fashioned morals. She has changed but she has not. She has always been red, underneath, it's just that she was painted with a calming blue, and now it's chipping away. If he wanted blue…well, he already has blue. He wants red, and she is red.

She is his reason for living on some days and his reason for cursing life on others. She is the ultimate paradox, but if he told her this she'd laugh and smile and forcefully suggest that he stick to words within her vocabulary.

Sometimes all he sees is red. Not just her, but everything. The whole world bleeds and seeps and there is war and there are soldiers and there are men screaming and men crying and men dying. He wakes up and he scream and he cries and, inside, he dies, and blue reaches out and cradles him and whispers in his ear that everything will be fine but he still can't escape and all he sees is red. It's always coming for him, catching him, tearing him away from all that is good. But…he's sure it's a different shade than her, it must be. _She_ is everything that is good, good for him.

He doesn't know how to handle her.

She's not only the red of lively blood but also red hot as a smith's iron. She is wielded by a powerful worker, and can flare from warm to searing with seemingly no provocation. He knows that if he were to touch an ironsmith's craft he would get burned, but he doesn't make the connection with her.

When she comes that day, to his house, on his birthday, dressed in red…for a brief moment he thinks that his world has exploded and dispersed and all that is left is her, in that red dress, blending in to it, eyes alight with passion. It does not matter that he is a fool and she is a fool and they are both looked down upon by every old woman in the town and he has somehow betrayed Melanie without even meaning to, without even wanting to. In that moment she is red and he is almost red with her. Then he is reminded of all that he forgot and she looks like blood mixed with milk, turned to pink, embarrassed and scared and weak.


	12. Orange

This is a bit different than previous chapters in that it is a lot longer and I used the prompt much more loosely than I have in the past. It took me a while to get through and I'm not sure what I think of the final result, but I liked the concept.

**Orange**

Philippe was dying and he knew it. He'd killed that bastard, but he'd himself been shot in the process. Now he was lying on the side of the road, helpless, giving in to the dizziness and exhaustion that had overtaken him. He was half way to the doctor's office at the end of the street, but he knew it was futile. He'd left a trail of blood down the block and it wasn't stopping any time soon. It was a strange and disgusting thing, to stick fingers into one's own flesh, to feel life pulsing out of you, warm and sticky. He was so far past pain that he knew he would soon pass out and never wake up.

He would die, just like very other man, He would stop breathing and stop living and become a body rotting in the gutter, just like any other man. There was only one way he was different, and it was her.

Ellen loved him—he didn't know why—and he loved her back. He would've married her in a heartbeat if her father hadn't forced him out. There was no possibility of even describing her sweet countenance, her calm demeanor that hid a well-tamed youthful passion he alone had had the honor of seeing.

It began when he went to the family country home for a few weeks last summer. They knew each other well but had both changed considerably since their last meeting. She was growing into a womanly figure, and he was well on his was to a fine set of sideburns. When he had seen her, a strange sensation overtook him, blinding him to the fact that he was looking at his cousin. He didn't believe it was her until he saw that child-like and exuberant smile, and then he knew it had to be Ellen. He quickly pushed whatever that thing bubbling within was aside. This was his cousin, and he had known her since she was three. His feelings were surely inappropriate. Besides, she must not find it difficult to breathe when she saw him.

But Philippe underestimated his own qualities, and Ellen's readiness to fall in love as a teenage girl. To her, he was handsome, charming, and witty, and he paid her attention like no other man ever had. The other men were afraid to talk to her because of her father. Philippe, of course, had no such worries, as they were related.

Therein lay the main problem. Ellen had heard of several marriages between relatives such as cousins, but she didn't think her father would be especially enthusiastic about one that involved his own daughter. Philippe was, after all, from the poorer branch of the family tree. There was no reason to dislike him as a person, but Ellen was sure that Father would find plenty as a son-in-law.

There was nothing for it. Both decided, independently, that it would not do to fall in love with the other. Because of this they spent the first week of their time together being friendly and sweet, and the next avoiding each other. Their minds were so similar that they had the same reactions to this startling turn in the other--surprise, disappointment, anger at being ignored, and a frostiness that prevented and further interactions.

Mammy, of course, noticed all of this. She didn't know the exact cause of the open hostility, but she knew Ellen well enough that it was clear that something was wrong. Pierre Robillard did not know Ellen well, but he could sense the bad blood between his daughter and nephew. One evening, determined to put a stop to this nonsense, he summoned Philippe.

"Tomorrow you will take Ellen on a buggy ride and picnic at ten o'clock. Resolve this silly business," he barked gruffly. Philippe was left with nothing to say but 'Yes, sir.'

-

Ellen did not seem at all pleased when she stepped in to the buggy the next morning.

"Where's your mammy?" Philippe asked.

"She doesn't handle the jangling well," she replied, not making eye contact and sounding annoyed.

"Oh." Alone, with Ellen. He supposed it was alright, since they were related. But still. Ellen.

She was wearing a flattering shade of peach that day, and carried a delicate white parasol that matched the lace on her bodice. He hair was pulled neatly beneath a white bonnet and her dainty hands protected by white gloves. The fluttering quality of the materials gave her an ethereal, or at least very fresh and spring-like, character. However, the little scowl on her face was threatening to ruin the entire image.

"Please don't scrunch your face. You look so much prettier when you're not angry." She looked stunned for a moment, then quietly sat back. He took the reins, sat up straight, and clicked for the horses to go. He probably should not have said that but, well, better for her to be silent and confused than silent and fuming.

They did not speak as he brought the horse to a stop next to the sparkling lake. They did not speak as he helped her out of the buggy and spread the picnic blanket on the ground. They did not even speak as they began nibbling on the food packed for the occasion.

Eventually, it became too much for Philippe. Unable to contain himself any longer, he blurted out the question he'd been dying to as for weeks now.

"Ellen, why do you dislike me?"

She stopped for a few seconds, surprised and looking straight at him. Then she placed the cup of tea she held in its saucer on the ground and regarded him seriously.

"It's not that I don't like you, but I am not inclined to continue acquaintance with one who dislikes me."

"I…do not dislike you. Besides, I am your cousin, not some acquaintance. You cannot avoid me forever." He felt his chest tighten. This was why he had decided to put this behind him.

"_You_ are doing the avoiding, I believe, and it is no fault of mine that we have not spoken for weeks."

"Well, if I have not started a conversation it is only because I do not feel worthy. What a foul beast you must think me that you avoid every glance, shrink from my presence, close your ears to my voice." Philippe felt the tightening intensify and knew, somehow, that how she responded now would determine relations between them from this moment on.

Ellen looked down, suddenly shy and unsure. "I…I do not think you a monster."

"Then do not treat me like one," he said, voice thick. He meant to stop at that, but the words kept pouring out. "Do not put me in a cage. Ellen, the more time I spend with you, the more I realize that you have the key to my heart. Do not cage me away." He reached for her gloveclad hand and held it in one of his. She looked at his hand, face bright red but not feigning the shyness that he was sure she had been told to show.

"I…don't know what to say."

"Say you love me. That is what I am telling you, Ellen. I love you." She blushed furiously, her eyelashes fluttering as she looked down at her hand in his. "Didn't Mammy teach you how to fend off a man who has confessed undying ardor?"

She giggled, suddenly much less serious and with a smile that lit up his world. "No."

"You're supposed to say, 'you're very kind, dear Philippe, but I cannot reciprocate your feelings at this time.'" He grinned devilishly and she laughed again. "But I don't take no for an answer. I've decided…that you're perfect. Everything I want." He brought her hands to his lips and heard her intake of breath.

"Philippe..." Hearing his name on her lips, breathy and passionate, drove him even wilder than he thought possible. "We cannot do this," she murmured, pained, even as her hand tentatively stroked his cheek. "You should take me back to the house."

"Yes, I should," he sighed, rising, and holding out his hand for her. The warmth of her grip shot through his body. He wanted nothing more than to always be near her, always able to hold her if at all possible. He grudgingly packed up the food and blanket and they boarded the buggy.

"I do love you, Ellen," he said seriously, taking up the reins. "You must know that."

"Philippe…" She turned her head away from him, hands gripping her parasol tightly. "I cannot tell you the same."

He sat, very still, staring at the horses. "Very well," he said after a long moment. He couldn't believe he'd been such a fool! Of course she didn't feel for him; she was just trying to be kind. She pitied him!

After dropping Ellen off at the house and putting the buggy and horses away, he took out his mare. Spurring her to go as fast as she could, he rode as far as he knew the land extended. It wasn't long until he could feel his horse panting hard beneath him, but he couldn't stop. Not now. He'd run himself if he had to stop now.

Of course she didn't love him! He was beneath her, and a boy she had grown up with to boot. She was not interested in his average looks or his below average income. He couldn't make her happy, and he was a fool to ever think he could!

When the horse finally did begin to falter, he was slightly calmer and thought that it might be time to head back in. Poor creature, it wasn't her fault that he was mad with emotion at this moment. He let her walk the distance back to the stables, not at all keen to be back in the house. By the time he saw the yards the sun was low in the late afternoon sky. He made sure his mare was well-taken care of and then stormed inside.

His room was on the second floor, and he had to pass by Pierre Robillard's study on the way. "Philippe!" Pierre barked, as the young man knew he would. Gritting his teeth, he turned back and walked in to the study. "Where have you been?"

"Enjoying the beauty of the grounds, sir."

"Are relations mended with my daughter?"

"Yes, sir." About as mended as they could be when he had made a damned fool of himself.

"This was brought by a negro this morning." Pierre handed him a folded piece of paper, sealed with wax. His father's initials. He tore it open, scanning it.

"I am needed for business. I'll leave tomorrow morning."

"If it is necessary." Pierre was already disinterested, instead going back to reading business papers. Philippe walked out quickly, eager to be shut away in his room. He would pack this evening, leave before dawn, borrow one of Pierre's horses if he had to, anything to get out of—

Ellen was in his room. Why, he did not know, but when he opened the door she spun around, looked at him with wide eyes, almost…quivering.

"What are you doing here?" He sounded so cold, so harsh, even to himself. She looked so scared that he wanted to reach out and hold her, and take back the tone he'd just used.

"I—I…Philippe, I…I couldn't bear to think that you would think that I…I must tell you, I think I love you as well."

"Ellen!" He immediately crossed the room, took her hands in his and looked at her intently. "I thought you hated me!"

"I didn't want to tell you." She looked down, seeming so young, so small. "It is wrong."

"Love is not wrong! Ellen." He cupped her chin and pushed it up so that she would look at him with those terrified, wide blue eyes. "Ellen, this is not wrong." He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her body and covering her mouth with his. She felt soft and delicate, her mouth barely moving. He realized it could have been her first kiss. Tears rolled down her cheeks when they parted. "What's wrong?"

"I just…feel so strange." She kept her grip on his arms, clinging as though she would fall if he let her go. He held her tighter and smiled.

"That is love."

-

Philippe still left early the next morning, because the business in Savannah really was pressing. He felt torn, desperately wanting to stay with Ellen. He left her his best quill, instructing her to write every day and promising to do the same. He hoped to return in a week, and then they would decide how to tell Pierre.

But Philippe's business lasted more than a week. Every day new complications arose, and some were probably his own fault. He was distracted, longing to visit Ellen. Her letters were a blessing and a curse, and in each of his replies he confessed that he loved her at least a half dozen times and always meant it with all of his heart. Soon a month had almost passed, and he felt like he was going insane. His only salvation was her daily letter.

But it couldn't last. Of course something went wrong. One Thursday, a seemingly normally torturous day, he opened her letter to find it tearstained and crumpled. Scribbled on the back was a smudged 'I will always love you.' With a sinking feeling, he read the letter.

_My darling Philippe,_

_My father found your letters and is furious. He says that if he ever sees you he will kill you, and he's going to write to your father about your misconduct. I fear he will actually hurt you if we ever see each other again. I love you, my darling, but I could not bear to see you hurt. We can never be married, and my father says he will never let us speak again. My love, please do not write to me! I could not bear it, and I will probably never get the letter because he is reading all of my mail. We must be apart, but know that I love you and will be yours forever._

_With all my heart,_

_Ellen_

He felt physically sick, and his heart was ready to explode. Never see her again? Never say one word to her, never hear her beautiful voice or see her lovely face? He couldn't live if they were to be forever apart!

And that was how he ended up here, half drunk, crawling down the street at one in the morning with his intestines spilling out. He had been looking for a fight, someone to give this pain to, but he had picked the wrong man. Now he would die, alone, and his last thought would be of Ellen in his arms, her face framed by that peach dress, a little smile shining through her tears.


End file.
